


Tales of the Wasteland: Driver

by Solas67



Series: Tales of the Wasteland [1]
Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Gen, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-15
Updated: 2016-07-15
Packaged: 2018-07-24 04:10:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7493322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solas67/pseuds/Solas67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A simple tale of surviving in the Wasteland and remembering one's own humanity. An original character, The Driver, reminisces about the Before-Times before the present brutally reminds itself to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tales of the Wasteland: Driver

**Author's Note:**

> This is borne out of the notion from all of the films that Max can't simply be the last MFP cop to have survived, given that they were all trained to survive on the road. So what if there is another Road Warrior, maybe not one with an Interceptor, that tries to do as Max does?
> 
> Ironically, this came out of a cosplay I did last year with friends. Not looking like any of the movie characters (save Joe with a bunch of work), I decided to make an original character....so I -am- the Driver, in many respects. 
> 
> Enjoy.

# TALES OF THE WASTELAND

 

Driver

## I remember people like you.

## You had a story.

## You had comings and goings and doings and that’s and this’s.

## You were like me.

## Except you never had to run the white line.

## You never had to live with being full octane crazy.

## You never had to live through the end of things and see the only thing on the other side was the Wasteland.

## The place they used to warn us about, the Restricted Zone.

## The only place left.

## I remember people like you, only because you’re all dead.

## I listen to the sound of tin scraping across gravel. A woman’s voice gargles out a question and a fat man answers. At least I remember the fat man.

## He _sounds_ fat.

## They used to be people I knew. Like me, drivers. Road warriors. The woman talks, her voice calm and steady, just giving information about things that don’t matter.

## Ziggy. That was a name.

## The box squeals and I hit it with my fist, and the sound levels out.

## Tapes, they used to call them. Tapes of the Before-Time. I don’t even remember where I got them from. It was a building, after it all started going to shit. Noone was around to stop me. Nothing after that.

## Another voice speaks up now. They’re done with it all, they can see the roads falling apart. They’re leaving.

## The sun seems bright today. Brighter than usual.

## You…the voices. You remind me of a time when people talked.

## The light reminds me of brighter times, better times.

## You’re not like what I see in front of me now.

## The sun is just rising over the hills. Or maybe they’re graves. I forget which. The roar of my engine is in my ears, but for once it’s not alone. I look out my rearview and see two on bikes.

## Hunters. Scavengers.

## There used to be a time when it would be me chasing them.

## Before my eye.

## Now they chase me because they’re with some burgerlord who wants all the guzzoline they can get.

## Or my skin.

## Or my stuff.

## My stuff is all I have left.

## I watch them break formation either side of me. The one on the left has a boomstick, one of those ones you stick through the window and _boom_.

## The one on the right has a crossbow. They’ve done this before. The one on the left looks smaller.

## The engine isn’t running hot yet and I know this place. Or I used to.

## Used to be part of the Transcon before the world went to shit. Now it’s just salt blowing in from what used to be the ocean.

## I flatten the pedal and the engine squeals at me like a stuck pig. I ignore it. Sure, it’s seen better days.

## At least it’s _seen_ days. What used to be yellow is nearly white. What used to be blue is gone.

## I shift right, throw the crossbow into the dirt but off aim. Boomstick starts angling to take out the rear, I slide the shooter out my window long enough to make them back up. Sunrise hits my left side, gonna make it hard for me to see Boomstick.

## I get reminded for a second of waking up to music on a blarer, drinking the black stuff to wake up, grabbing my badge…

##  _**Thunk**_.

## I feel it before I see it. Through the door into my right leg. Not sure how far. The pain washes over me like the dawn light and I put it out of my mind.

##  _Not now. Not now_.

##  _**Thunk**_.

## Crossbow’s taken a shot, put a nice hole in the right rear window. Good thing I don’t have one anymore. Just that old hoodie covering it up. Also means I can’t see shit.

## My left hand hovers over the nitrus. Every time I use it, I feel a little more of my life being given up.

## The car isn’t an Interceptor. Not that good. But it was going to be. I was working on it when…what was his name…? …went terminal crazy because he lost his sprog and….someone else…and they took the last one. The last of the Interceptors.

## Been looking for parts ever since.

## Boomstick moves up hard now, trying to take advantage. I poke the shooter out the window, and they hesitate.

## Long enough for me to flick the nitrus, and both hands have to grab the wheel or I become a long metal smear on the dirt.

## It works long enough as I hear another _Thunk_ and they get small in the mirrors. Long enough to flick the nitrus off and fishtail back facing them. The pain runs a hot line up my leg, I shunt it aside. Time for an old trick.

## Shit that sun’s bright for one good eye.

## I burn some rubber, holding the car in place before gunning it. Crossbow goes early and the arrow skips off the bonnet, like it’ll notice another scar. Boomstick thinks they see an opening as I head straight towards them. They start rearing back as I start getting in range. Crossbow shoots again, this time it sticks through the window and the tip hangs in front of my face, daring it to fuck off.

## Good thing I didn’t see it.

## Boomstick goes to throw…. And I hit the breaks hard and throw the car sideways, sending the back right into Boomstick and _boom_ goes Crossbow and over the bars goes Boomstick. At least the sun’s on my left again.

## And just like that, it’s over.

## All that’s left is to get however much guzzoline’s in the bikes (what’s left of them) and fang it out of here in case there’s scouts.

## My blood’s pounding in my ears, my hands are shaking on the wheel.

## The pain turns the volume up and starts shouting in one ear.

##  _Calm_ , I remind myself.

## I take one long breath and lean back. The head of the crossbow bolt’s gone clean through my thigh, but I’m not leaking out. I don’t waste another second as I snap it off from the shaft and angrily push the pain away. There’s worse coming, after all.

## I let my breathing settle, sparing a glance at the two bikes. They haven’t moved. Both hands grip the door and I push outwards. The pain goes with it and I hear my own dry throat cry out. By the time I blink a few times, I can see the shaft’s come out clean. Lucky. I grab a strip from my jacket and tie the wound tight. Don’t wanna leak out still.

## I untie the shooter and work the lever to load a round. The only round I have left. I don’t even know if it’s gonna fire.

## I keep the car in front of me, limping. Hard to keep low. Fuck the sun’s hot already.

## Boomstick’s bike is burning already, along with Boomstick. Nothing to get there. Crossbow’s gotten thrown through that only to have their own bike land on them. Looks like everything from the waist down is scrap.

## They’re not moving. I take it slow and steady, the shooter in both hands. Boomstick’s saying something, shallow and ragged. Sounds like it’s near their last. Their bike’s intact. Looks like some rounds, some food.

## Maybe water. Let it be water.

## “…like me,” Crossbow says. I inch closer, they’re not even looking at me. I’ve got my hood on for the sun, goggles. The faceguard I pulled off….I forget who.

## Better to end the poor bugger now.

## I start to line up the headshot….

## “…like me, my son. Coulda been…”

## I stop. I look down the barrel and I see the one thing that reminds me who I am.

## In bronze letters.

##  _Maintain right_.

## Father and son lay dead and dying on the road together. The sort of people I used to protect.

## I’m not a killer. Not like this. I push back the goggles, lower the mask.

## Not right. Not right to let them die without seeing another human face.

## “Let me…go to him in the sky…” Boomstick barely manages, hand grasping at something.

## I see the lighter in his jacket, kneel down and give it to him.

## “Plenty here to make him see a good fire,” I say in a voice I realize is choking.

## Cross… _he_ nods and smiles a little. I take the time to pull the tank from the bike, whatever I can throw in the back seat. I feel sick the entire time I’m doing it, even as I watch him cling onto the last of his life to wait for me.

## I pause back in front of him.

## “I…”

## “Would’ve done the same for your kid,” he rasps, not even looking at me evenly now. “Wasteland takes everything. You fight for what you got.”

## I nod. I can’t disagree with him. I get into the car, kick her in the guts and she turns over in protest.

## All the time as I head away I watch. I watch and I remember. I remember the father who scavenged and fought for and with his son to stay alive.

## I remember I was a cop who used to protect people like that but had to kill them to make that happen.

## I see the explosion before I hear it. I look down at the shooter, now with three rounds in it, and look at the badge. What’s left of the badge.

## Maybe next time I can do right.

## I drive.


End file.
